


She Attends the Broken Promise

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Never Far from the Queen [10]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 08:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16615691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: Nothing compares to the look in his eyes when he opens them for the first time after his death. Woedica is used to queenly gifts, but no offering could ever match that expression on his face, confirming the absolute power she has over his soul.Souls are energy, and do not resemble the kith; but she is a goddess, and thus able to shape that energy into whatever she desires. That is why he always wakes robed in his mortal form – because she chooses so. And more than that – she carefully constructs the entire space around them, sculpts it into a perfect reflection of a very specific memory.





	She Attends the Broken Promise

**Author's Note:**

> (prompt 66: gratitude)

She gently runs her finger along the trembling lines of his eyelashes, watching his face, so serene in that brief respite between death and life. Just a moment, now, a few calm breaths, a few slow heartbeats.

Nothing compares to the look in his eyes when he opens them for the first time after his death. Woedica is used to queenly gifts, but no offering could ever match that expression on his face, confirming the absolute power she has over his soul.

Souls are energy, and do not resemble the kith; but she is a goddess, and thus able to shape that energy into whatever she desires. That is why he always wakes robed in his mortal form – because she chooses so. And more than that – she carefully constructs the entire space around them, sculpts it into a perfect reflection of a very specific memory.

Every time, instead of regaining consciousness in some nondescript realm of adra, he wakes beside her, in her bed – as he did once, ages ago. For a moment, he remembers nothing but what has led him here, so every time, his amazement and adoration are genuine. Every time, he feels blessed to be here. When he wakes and the first thing he sees is her face leaning over him, luminous in the first light of day, there is that clearly noticeable instant when it dawns on him just how fortunate he is, to have been chosen.

Woedica watches the sparks kindling in his eyes bloom into fire. Watches greedily, but draws from that warmth carefully, not to extinguish the flame of life fuelling his soul. Strange how even in someone like him it is delicate, like an exotic flower – and equally intoxicating.

Some gods take what is theirs, disregarding the boundaries of mortals. Some accept what is given to them, only subtly prompting their faithful. Some just let the Wheel roll, collecting their due tribute of the essence with every turn, taking only as much as necessary.

Fools, Woedica thinks, pressing her hand against Thaos’ chest, feeling the echo of a heartbeat underneath her palm. There is nothing that could compare to a sacrifice given willingly, and when he wakes besides her, astonishment and admiration practically radiating from him, it is powerful enough that she could get drunk on it if she wanted to, tasting the devotion infusing every fibre of his spirit. Very different from the strength taken by force, a customary offering, or even just acceptance.

He is so very grateful for her favour; he would fall to his knees and worship her if she wished – and she often lets him. Every death, he swears his loyalty to her anew, and every life he is bound to her more tightly. Just another, smaller wheel, all his lives revolving around two empty chambers where he is with her, two images from the past he will never forget: in her temple, kneeling before her as her high priest, and in her bed, back when they were both mortals – never equals, but that is the closest he has ever been to her, the closest she has ever allowed him. That is why she regularly reminds him of the latter – because the distance between two bodies tangled in the sheets seems very small compared to that between flesh and divine essence.

She is justice incarnate, so sometimes, when he does his duties well, she offers him the mercy of oblivion in death – for those few last breaths she takes, cuts short with a glimmer of a silver thread. But she is not unappreciative, and this intricately crafted memory she brings back for him to relive over and over, just as astounding as it was the first time – this is his reward, breathtaking in an entirely different sense.

His eyes open slowly as he wakes, a soft, surprised gasp escaping his mouth when he notices her. “My lady. My Queen,” he corrects himself immediately, but those first two words, inappropriately intimate despite the situation, give her much more power.

Woedica leans in, mapping his face with her fingertips. No other gods have temples as rich and grand as she does – and yet nowhere else is she revered like within the confines of this very soul. This is the reason why he is the first among her Favoured, even if he will never be more than a servant. But ah, so very loyal; loyal to a fault and far beyond it.

“Thaos,” Woedica says; just his name, just one word in which she accepts his pledge and his offering. She smiles, haughty and imperious as ever, but still within his reach for a while longer.

He does not move, merely drinks in the sight of her, contemplating this unexpected blessing that has been bestowed upon him with the same disbelief he did for the first time. Justice is powerful, but memory – memory is everything. Soon, he will recall that night, he will know _this_ happened before – but he will only cherish her all the more for it.

Thaos’ brows knit in a frown as recognition starts to settle in, as he realizes it is yet another turn of the Wheel. He bows his head, always respectful, even here. Especially here.

“You always wait for me,” he whispers, voice full of gratitude and wonder.

“No, my favourite.” Her lips ghost over his forehead. “Waiting would suggest we are apart. But this little chapel…” She presses her palm against his chest, where the heart will soon beat again, hard, deep, leaving an imprint in the very fabric of his soul – in exactly the same spot she always does, new seal melting the outlines of the old one. “This is a place which I never leave.”


End file.
